


and if you return to me

by dante_kent



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Because Season 5 is pain and I respond by writing more pain, General Angst, M/M, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dante_kent/pseuds/dante_kent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian comes back. But only to say goodbye. </p><p>Set post-5x11, written with no knowledge of 5x12. Just general dread and anxiety and a helpless love for these two boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and if you return to me

Ian comes back. But only to say goodbye.

 

It’s been three weeks of panicked phone calls turning to resigned messages, anger and resentment and worry. But when he shows up again, there’s no club or phone call from the police, nothing dramatic. It’s just a text from Fiona simply stating:

 

_Ian’s back._

 

Mickey practically runs to the Gallagher house. He bursts in and halts in the kitchen doorway to take in Fiona and Ian sitting calmly at the table, sipping coffee. He looks tired, but somehow more present than he’s been. Mickey stays frozen, hesitating. There’s something…he’s not sure, but it feels like –

 

“Where will you go?” Fiona’s voice is carefully even, presenting a supportive serenity she certainly doesn’t feel. But she’s trying, and Ian isn’t bolting, so it must be good enough.

 

Ian shrugs. “I was thinking west, maybe. Somewhere on the coast.”

 

He hasn’t acknowledged it yet, but Mickey can tell he knows he’s there, can see it in the set of his shoulders. He knows Mickey’s listening. He needs him to listen.

 

And it’s hard, it’s difficult to hear over the ringing in his ears, the way his lungs feel compressed within his chest. But then Ian looks up at him still hovering in the doorway, finally meets his eyes. And Mickey _knows_. He just knows that this is it.

 

He can feel a pricking behind his eyes, and he still can’t get enough oxygen. He wants to shake his head, refuse, run out of the house, away from this moment.

 

But Ian is looking at him, and there’s a stillness in him, a certainty, and Mickey understands. He wants to scream, rail against the world, but he _understands_.

 

So he breathes in. “Going to the land of the good weed?” His voice croaks in his throat, unwilling, but Ian’s lips quirk up just a bit, and it’s more _Ian_ than he’s been in weeks. And it hurts, god, it feels like someone is burning his insides. But he looks at Ian, who is quiet and beautiful and _here_ , and he smiles back.

 

He will lose him, if it means that Ian won’t lose himself.

 

~

 

They are packing him up, everyone forcing cheer like they’re moving him out to college, off to start a new exciting chapter in his life. And maybe that’s what he’s doing, but it still feels like loss.

 

It’s hard to tell what belongs to whom, and there’s a lot of bustling and shifting through the clutter of the room, putting things into boxes, the screech of the packing tape sporadically interrupting the familial chatter. Mickey stands near the foot of Ian’s bed, pretending to be helpful, but mostly he’s just picking things up and putting them on top of other things in random piles. A lot of Ian’s things are still at his own house (Svetlana had packed them up neatly only a few weeks ago, but Mickey had unpacked them again, so hopeful, so _sure_ \- ). He’ll have to bring them over later.

 

Debbie is fumbling with something in the corner, but then she perks up, muttering about some pictures she wants to send off with Ian, and she rushes out of the room.

 

And then Ian is right in front of him, and they’re alone. They just stand there for a minute, both looking down, content to simply be near each other. Mickey wants to live here, in this space around Ian, safe in the heat of him. Ian reaches forward slightly, fingering the hem of Mickey’s shirt. The touch is barely there, but Mickey feels it all – the apology, the plea for understanding, the promises he may not be able to keep. Mickey runs his finger gently down Ian’s forearm, and they both exhale.

 

Then Debbie bursts in again, and Ian steps back. He meets Mickey’s eyes, and his smile is sad, but his eyes are bright, and Mickey can do this. He will do this for Ian. He can be strong too.

 

~

 

Ian is leaving again, but it will be different this time. He will call home. He’ll enroll in some classes and get a part-time job and send e-mails and letters and progress reports. He will take his meds. He will Skype with Fiona and he’ll invite Lip out for Christmas and he will live a life that will make him feel new and clean and someday, whole.

 

They don’t ask if he’ll be back. He doesn’t know. But if he does, it won’t be soon. There is a world out there that doesn’t know Ian Gallagher yet, and maybe in the introduction, Ian can relearn him too. So he’ll be gone, but this time, he won’t disappear.

 

Mickey wonders if he should tell Ian he’ll wait for him, however long it takes. But there’s no point. Waiting implies that there is another option being put on hold. For Mickey, there is only a world with Ian and a world without him.

 

They have a dinner, a big Gallagher family gathering, and Lip trains in and Kev and V come over and Svetlana even swings by with Yevgeny. Ian will leave tomorrow, and he looks excited. Mickey watches him quietly and documents every smile, every laugh. And when Fiona walks by him, she briefly lays her hand on his shoulder, squeezing ever so slightly, and Mickey realizes, maybe for the first time, that when Ian leaves him, he won’t be leaving him alone.

 

~

 

He is standing on the baseball field, staring at the sun. He can practically see the Gallaghers hustling around, T-one hour to liftoff, shoving last-minute knickknacks into a duffle bag, Fiona packing a sandwich for the road. It was too much, too much noise and movement. So Mickey came here.

 

And there was Ian, strolling over to him, hands in his pockets. He knew Ian would come here eventually, that he would know where to find him. Mickey will always be waiting for Ian to find him again.

 

They look at each other, and Ian grins. Mickey grins back helplessly, because it’s Ian, and he feels like he’s still staring at the sun.

 

He looks at Ian, here, and he remembers it all. He thinks about before, Ian loving him too much, trying to save him. Then, later, when it was Mickey’s turn to do the same. Their timelines had always gotten crossed.

 

He thinks about the spring, those months of being together. How many things he didn’t know then, how young and naïve and stupid in love he’d been.

 

“How long did we have?” He asks Ian softly. “Really have.”

 

Ian shrugs, mouth twisting ruefully. “A few months, maybe. Not enough time.”

 

Mickey can feel his eyes stinging, and he sniffs hard, rubbing his nose and passing it off as an itch. He isn’t fooling anyone, but if he’s going to do this, he’ll do it his way.

 

“We never did get it right, did we?”

 

Ian huffs out a choked laugh. “No, I guess not.” A pause. Then: “We _were_ right, though.”

 

Mickey looks up at that. Then he nods, and Ian smiles, and just like that, it’s good.

 

 _I love you_ is not something they’ve said, not to each other, not face to face. It’s just one of those things they know. Like Mickey knows that Ian is it for him. Like he knows that it can’t save them.

 

He sort of wants to say it now, though, wants to see Ian hear it. But that might taste like _goodbye_ , and the words won’t move past his lips. Even if that’s what this is.

 

But it’s time for Ian to go. Mickey can tell by the restless tapping of his foot, the way he can’t seem to decide where to angle his body. Suddenly, the thought of never touching Ian again physically hurts, like a phantom limb. He takes two quick steps forward before halting, unsure. Ian pauses too before closing the rest of the distance.

 

He leans down, pressing his forehead against Mickey’s. They stand like that for a long time, breathing each other in. Mickey wants to inhale him, make him part of his flesh. He just wants to keep him.

 

He thinks about the person he was, and who he is now. This might not be the version of himself that he would have chosen. But he chose Ian, and Ian made him this. Ian pushed and fought and offered so much of himself until Mickey became this, and there’s no going back. Ian is a part of him now. Maybe that is their forever.

 

Ian pulls back to press a kiss to his forehead. He exhales shakily, strokes Mickey’s cheek gently, and then he turns and walks away. Mickey watches him go. He keeps watching long after Ian has faded away, until the sun has started to set, pink lines streaking across the sky, a pale imitation of brilliant red.

 

There is a roaring in his ears, a violent sucking feeling in his chest that threatens to splinter his ribs one by one and drag them into the pull. He gasps in a few shuddering breaths, flexing his fingers and forming them into fists, over and over and over again.

 

Eventually, his heartbeat starts to slow. The blackness shimmering at the edges of his vision fades away, and he can breathe again.

 

Tomorrow, he will wake up, and Ian will be gone. That’s not new, not exactly, but this time, he knows Ian won’t be back. Not for a long while.

 

He will walk away from this place, and everything will look just a little less bright. He will glimpse flashes of Ian around every corner, because Ian is in everything now. And he loves him, god, he will love him til the day he dies.

 

But Mickey Milkovich has FUCK U-UP tattooed on his fingers. He has gunshot wounds and a sister and a wicked sense of revenge and he can smile when he’s eye to eye with a gun.

 

And Mickey is someone Ian Gallagher had loved, and he may not have been enough, but he is _something_.

 

He goes home.

 

- _fin_ _  
_

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first full fic I've written in over two years. So. That happened. I blame Shameless and these boys and my own inability to deal with feels. 
> 
> Title taken from Damien Jurado's "Beacon Hill."


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